


Okay

by anonymous_John_H_Watson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-09-27 09:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_John_H_Watson/pseuds/anonymous_John_H_Watson
Summary: "John, can I rest in your room tonight?" Sherlock asked.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 6. You don't need to read previous chapters to understand the context.

From  
"I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes."

To  
"You are the best and wisest man I have ever known." 

Somehow, John found himself in a dimly lit train, nearly shaking trying to accept the fact that he was going to die. He was going to die with the man he loved who was currently bent over a bomb that would lead to their demise. A bomb, not even the wisest man could stop. In a way, it was everything John wanted. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock. In a way, he would. But the thought, the thought of spending the rest of his life hating and being bitter about the betrayal scared him more than death. And never coming out? Never accepting himself? Never telling the world, or at least, Sherlock how he felt? That. That was even scarier. He had to tell Sherlock how he felt about him. He had to. And so, from I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes, John was about to say I'll do anything for Sherlock Holmes. 

"You are the best and wisest man I have ever known." 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly opened his mouth and mustered up the courage to speak, very gently, as if the words he was going to say would break Sherlock (or him), he spok- Wait, why was Sherlock snickering?  
"Sh-sherlock?" 

John walked over to see him laughing into his hand as the bomb lay with the timer flashing the same number over and over and over again.  
What was that he was feeling this morning because of Sherlock?  
Oh yes, that's right! BETRAYAL ANGER ANNOYANCE FRUSTRATION  
"You- you utter-"  
"Your face with the-"  
"You complete and utter cock!" 

What was John thinking? Telling Sherlock he loved him? What about Mary? What about Sherlock "married to my work" Holmes? This could not happen. Even if he wanted it to. 

God, he wanted to.

John spent the night at 221b Baker Street in his old room that night. He stared at the ceiling and studied all the blemishes and cracks in the paint he knew all too well. He did his best to process everything that had taken place in the short amount of twenty four hours. Sherlock. The patient he had physically abused (that was bad). Mary (can't believe she didn't say anything about the mustache. I thought she thought it looked hot!) The train. Sherlock. His potential death. Sherlock's potential death. Sherlock being an utter cock, as usual ( or was usual). His almost confession. (Did I mention Sherlock?)

So, yes, John spent a great deal thinking about Sherlock. Did he consider wanking? Yes. Did he know it was creepy and disturbing to want to do so after what he had been through? Yes. Did he think it was weird to do it thinking of Sherlock? No. Did he wank? Uhh..ish? Does it count if one doesn't finish as one is walked in on by one's masturbatory fantasy in real life? 

John tried to fall asleep but the new memories of Sherlock were fresh in his mind, and for the first time in a long time, he was alone in a bed. His hand traveled from his chest to his stomach and eventually from his the start of his- 

There was a knock at the door. John's hand immediately rose up to his side. 

"John, are you up?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yeah, yeah, Sherlock, what happened?"  
"I would be immensely grateful if you'd allow me to rest in your room."  
John blinked. 

For a very long time. 

"What?"  
"Nevermind, I knew the idea was preposterous the moment I-"  
"Okay."  
Sherlock blinked.

For a very long time. 

"Okay." He shut the door behind him and walked to the bed.


	2. Why did this feel like goodbye?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, they kiss.

John didn't ask why Sherlock had the urge to sleep next to him. He feared if he asked Sherlock would leave or say it was part of some experiment or anything really. What could he possibly say to justify it which wouldn't be bad? 

So, John stayed quiet. They didn't talk or touch each other. It was comfortable, companionable, it was..nice. John woke up to Sherlock sleeping on his side with his arms around John. 

John started staying at Sherlock's a lot more. If Mary was out of town, if she was working late herself, if it had gotten late which usually happened on cases. Consequently, Sherlock began taking more cases. The two slept together, platonically (ish). 

Months went by, John proposed to Mary and the two were making plans for the wedding. And one night, when it got late, John stayed at Sherlock's. As usual, Sherlock came into John's room and lay down. Then, John turned over and asked,  
"Sherlock?"  
"Mhmm." He hummed in response.  
"What are we- I mean, why.."  
"Making up time."  
"What?"  
"You and I used to spend a lot of time in each other's company before Mary, of course. And I have become accustomed to your companionship and would like the amount of time to stay the same. These additional occasional 8 hours help me ensure we are together the same amount we were before. If we're short, I take another case, make you run around so you're tired so you stay here."  
"What?! Sherlock, you can't just-" he began, confused and slightly frustrated.  
"That doesn't even make sense. We sleep, Sherlock. We're unconscious."   
"No, you're unconscious."  
"God, of course. What do you even do then? If not sleep."  
"I had expected the act of observing your regular sleeping patterns to get tedious and dull but to my surprise, it didn't. I haven't done any experiments, if that's you're primary concern."  
"Sherlock,"  
"I just watch sometimes and just- just stay."

John took a moment to process it all. This was weird even for Sherlock. This wasn't normal. But when was anything ever normal for them? 

John moved closer to him. He wrapped an arm around him and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Closing his eyes, he waited for sleep to take him. John saw Sherlock's hesitation but eventually felt him loosen against him and get comfortable.   
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John."  
"You're a git."

Sherlock smiled. 

Another few months later, John got married. The two continued on as before. At least once a week, John stayed in his room with Sherlock.

Problem was, things changed. In a funny way, really. It reminded John of something he'd read before how even though it seemed like everyday was the same, when you looked back, you realise, everything has changed. But that was the problem. Rather than change, rather than go from "Bachelor John Watson" to "oh, hes with the missus", he returned to "Sherlock's flatmate." Everything changed, but it didnt go forward, it went back. It was almost as if Sherlock had never left but whenever John woke up to Sherlock sleeping, he remembered seeing him on the floor with blood splattered all around him, his face hidden from view. He remembered seeing Mycroft smoke, the fiery embers leaving his silent killer and crushing on the floor, making the pavement darker than it ought to be. He remembered grief, pain and eventually, numbness. When he got so used to it all, he no longer remembered what it meant to be happy. He thought, what if Sherlock died again? What if I never have this moment again? Why don't i just fucking carpe diem it and see what happens? What if I go near him and put my arms around his, pull him closer and closer until we're inhaling the same air, until I can see all of him, his vulnerable emotions, his brilliant thoughts, his eyes that can never seem to decide on a color, until we have no choice but to give in, let our lips meet in a much anticipated kiss? 

"John." Sherlock whispered, pulling him out of his trance.  
"W-wha-"  
And at that moment, Sherlock did exactly what John had imagined. Once they touched, the air around them changed. They were grabbing and pulling everything in sight, wanting more and more, moans escaped from their mouths as they took turns taking each other lip's inside theirs, letting tongues slide against each other, tasting and learning everything, making fantasies come true. But eventually, when they stopped for air, John saw himself in Sherlock's eyes and he saw guilt. Sherlock didn't say or show anything, all the vulnerability John had seen seemed to melt away. 

They kissed slowly, one peck, then another, never stopping but never finishing either. Desires were controlled as both maintained eye contact and John felt like crying. He threw his arms around Sherlock and stayed there.

Why was it that he felt like he had cheated on Sherlock all this time with Mary?

Why did he feel guilty?

And,

Why did this feel like good bye?


	3. What if?

Sometimes, John wondered what his life would have been like if he had never gone to Afghanistan. Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like if he ran away from home as a kid. And other times, what it would be like if Sherlock hadn't jumped. Now, it seemed as though the adrenaline junky, danger addict, former bachelor John Watson's life was comprised of a bunch of what ifs. 

He had to think like that. 

His normal life just wasn't worth living anymore. 

He went back home to Mary and she continued on as nothing had ever happened, nothing had changed. In her defense, she didn't know John had kissed Sherlock, she didn't know he wasn't loyal. But how could he tell her? How could he tell her that after all they had been through she was just someone or even something to make him distracted? How could he? After all she had done for him? 

He kept on picturing countless movie and book scenes where someone cheats on someone and the cliche line that tips everyone off is, "You wanted to be caught."   
Obviously, in the movies, the adulterer did not. But John did; in some ways he felt like he had been caught. He had been caught cheating when Sherlock saw him stuttering and tumbling over his words trying to tell a woman that he wanted to marry her. He was caught when Sherlock saw him make vows promising to love only her. He was caught when she announced they were pregnant. And Sherlock? He never said any of the movie lines. He never did any of it. He just stood still as John beat the life out of him, he just left early at the wedding, he just offered his name for the child and smiled. And, he looked at John in a way that made John feel transparent. How? 

John was always a good writer, beacuse writing was a one way thing. Almost like a narcissistic one way therapy, all the issues one faces, one writes but he was never good at expressing how he felt in real life. Its why therapy never worked for him. But somehow, Sherlock through his deduction or the rapport they had built, seemed to know what John was thinking all the time. And so, when John imagined kissing him, Sherlock did. When he imagined punching him, Sherlock let him. And when he felt what they had done was wrong. Sherlock stopped everything. The nights in each others' arms, the frequent cases, the visits, the kiss. 

But John wasn't sure if Sherlock know why John felt guilty. He didn't know how to explain he felt guilty marrying Mary not only because it was the wrong thing to do to Mary, but that it had destroyed the potential of a relationship with Sherlock. Sometimes, John wanted to tell Mary what they had done. Sometimes, he wondered if Sherlock wanted the same thing. Other times, he thought about his future child. 

Most of the time, he thought about everything that wasn't his life. Everything that could have been. Sometimes, John felt like he was in a box, in the literal sense. And the box was open just a bit, just enough to let a ray of sunlight shine on his pale skin, he could feel the warmth spread throughout his body from that one ray and he wanted more. He wanted more, he wanted to kick and hit and do everything in his power to open this box, to get out of this never ending, suffocating world that it made him want to hit his head against the box until it cracked open and bled all of his emotions and thoughts and dreams and everything out. But the thing is, he never did any of it. He never got out of the box, he never cracked his skull open, he just stayed there still. 

And then, he saw Sherlock. A song he had listened to in his childhood came to mind, the lyrics went,   
"somewhere in my youth or childhood   
I must have done something good"  
Because he couldn't remember doing anything good in his adulthood. Not anything good enough to get Sherlock in return, to get happiness in return because everytime he saw him, he felt as though there was no box, there were no what ifs, there was nothing but them. He felt funnier around him, he felt confident, he felt like air, and he found that, through Sherlock, he could love himself. But that wasn't the best part. It was knowing that Sherlock loved him as much as he loved him back. Even if he hadn't said it to him, even if they weren't doing whatever they were doing before, Sherlock was still Sherlock. And to John, Sherlock was transparent. 

And then, he found a little silver USB with the words A.G.R.A written in black marker and he listened as Sherlock made a vow to protect his wife. 

What he didn't know was that she would die. And when she would, John would get into the box himself, he would tape himself into it, beacuse after what he had done to Mary, he didn't deserve Sherlock. Everyone he ever came close to, they got hurt. Whether it be Harry in the form of alcohol, Sherlock in the form of a fake suicide, his wife in the form of a bullet, or himself in the form of himself, they got hurt. It didn't matter what John had done in his childhood to deserve Sherlock, after what he had done in adulthood, he didn't deserve any of it. 

Beacuse the thing is, before A.G.R.A, before Rosie was born, when Mary was six months away from giving birth, John went to 221b Baker Street. He looked at Sherlock and said, "Sod it."  
Sherlock stood still as John wrapped his arms around him and eventually, after looking into his eyes which asked if he wanted to do this, he embraced him. John kissed him. Hard. His hands went down to his waist and pulled him closer and closer, aching for friction in all the right places. Sherlock let out a moan that made John mad. The two rushed to Sherlock's bed. 

And it didn't end there. John and Sherlock started an affair. 

And then, she died. 

A disc appeared with the words, "Did you miss me?" on it. And in it, was Mary. Telling Sherlock to save John, because she knew what they were capable of..once she was gone. She knew only they could save each other. She knew. All of it. From the start. She wanted them to continue. 

But, how could they?   
________


	4. What you did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock interrupts John's proposal.

Before, Mary's death, before the affair, before all of it, John was just a man asking a woman to marry him. He was _ordinary. _

Low expectations. John always had low expectations from everyone. He learnt a long time ago that the less you expected, the less disappointed you would be. When Harry became an alcoholic and he told her he wouldn't talk to her until she got clean, he didn't expect her to get clean for him. When he went to war, he didn't expect to come back alive. When he developed PTSD, he didn't expect therapy to end his nightmares. When he asked Sherlock for one more miracle, he didn't expect a not dead Sherlock towering over him at an over priced restaurant when he was about to propose.

But then again, Sherlock had always exceeded his expectations, he had never failed to surprise him. Obviously, in death, it would be the same. John knew that. But when he saw Sherlock, when he clenched his teeth as his lips curned in a deceitful smile, as his fingers turned to fists that violently slammed against the table, as he became oblivious to his surroundings, he asked,  
"Why?"

John never expected anything from everyone except himself. He expected his walls to stay up. He expected not to fall in love. He expected being safe. He expected not feeling betrayal. But he had disappointed himself. Why? Was it worth it, really?

His mind flashed to the first time he set his eyes on the man and he asked, out of all things in the world,  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
His mind flashed to a pool. A bomb strapped to his chest. He heard Irene's voice over and over and over. He listened to Sherlock shout as a man threated to kill John. He payed attention to every tiny detail, every case, every bedsheet ever to be stripped off beds and cloak Sherlock, every kidney in the freezer, every brushing of fingers as tea was passed, every stolen smile, shared, private chuckle, every client, every case, every day he had spent with the man. Sherlock had torn down his walls and John merely gaped as he stepped inside his mind. He watched as he prodded and lounged in his head and smiled at his sprawled body.

Why?

Why did he let all this happen? Why did it happen? Why did Sherlock go? Why didn't he stay? Why didn't he?

There was only one thing John felt in that moment and it was betrayal. The eight letter word he couldn't quite put his finger on.

John wished Sherlock had really died.

"I thou- I thought you were dead. Now you let me grieve."

The problem was, John knew the exact moment he let down his walls. He knew the exact moment he had fallen in love. He knew when he gave Sherlock the power to hurt him. He just didn't know Sherlock would ever use that power. He remembered the pool, remembered feeling Sherlock would do anything for him.

It's just, if John did let his walls down. Why did Sherlock have to break everything he had hidden inside? _How_ could he break everything he had hidden inside?

"How could you do that?"  
"How could you?"

Sherlock started to babble incoherently until finally he said, very clearly,  
"Are you going to keep that?" Indicating John moustache with a grin. Mary chuckled.

John wanted to curl up in a hole and die. He wanted to go on the top floor of Bart's, call Sherlock, tell him this was his bloody note and fucking jump of the building. He wanted Sherlock to feel the pain. He wanted him to feel used and forgotten and needy as fuck. He wanted him to see John everywhere, he wanted it to fuck up all his relationships, he wanted him to endure all the pain and eventually the numbing feeling of nothingness. Difference is, John would actually die. He wanted Sherlock to be sorry, to howl in pain but he didn't want Sherlock to go through what he was going through in this moment. He didn't want Hitler to go through what he was going through.

John hadn't realized it, but he was currently choking Sherlock to death. He was on top of him in a lavish restaurant while waiters and his soon to be fiancee pryed his hands of the man's skinny neck. He wanted him to die. Was that so bad? He wanted to him to either live or die like an ordinary person.

John hadn't realised it, but he was currently pulling Sherlock closer by his collar to get a better grip and pummel him to death surrounded by different waiters stopping him in a different restaurant. Christ, he had to stop.

John hadn't realised it, but he was currently attempting to head the already bleeding Sherlock while more waiters in a terribly unhygienic excuse for a cafe tried to stop him. His nose was broken. John's mind flashed to all the stitches he had stitched onto the man, all the scars he had healed, all the ailments he had fixed, all the colds he had made him soup for, all the burns he had treated. Good. John didn't have to treat him anymore.

But God, he wanted to. Beacuse the thing is, like desire, grief is invisible. Pain is invisible. It wasn't crying out loud, it wasn't hugging everyone you know. It was something else entirely. It was faking a smile until everyone left the room and even then, even then, not allowing yourself to cry. It was slowly declining meals and losing weight but losing it so slowly that no one noticed. It was avoiding sleep and getting so used to being drunk all the time that you felt sober. It sucked.

Some people smile with their entire face, you know? Not just their lips but their eyes. You know someone old lived a happy life when they're wrinkles around their eyes. John eyes didn't wrinkle, not anymore beacuse no matter how hard he tried, his eyes, if one cared to stare in them deep enough, long enough, would notice he was broken. But no one noticed except John himself. When he looked into Sherlock's eyes, he saw his own reflection staring back at him and be realised his pain was showing, his desire for Sherlock was showing, he was no longer invisible. And it scared him. It scared the hell out of him. Vulnerability was something he'd buried. Sentiment was something he had shed. His walls were up so strong he realised, he hadn't even let himself in. And when Sherlock broke his walls down, John didn't walk inside with him, he didn't jump off the building with him, he merely watched and cried out his name as he jumped off the very walls John has built to keep him out to his death.

Sherlock hadn't just killed himself, he'd killed John.

Maybe that's why he wanted to marry her. Not just loneliness, isolation but because she had stayed with him even though he was..dead. Leaving her just because he felt alive felt wrong. Maybe he married her because he did love her. Or maybe it was a sort of revenge. But it didn't matter because one thing was for sure, he didn't want to cheat on her, he didn't want her to die.

But, he also didn't want to be away from Sherlock ever. How could he put it into words? How could one possibly articulate something they didn't understand. How could he understand that the reason he hurt, the reason he felt like shit, the reason his pupils dilated when Sherlock looked into his eyes, the reason is heart beat faster when he came near, the reason his pulse increased to the point he could feel it thumling against his wrist, the reason why he had died, was love?

And so, when he saw him, it wasn't just betrayal but it was knowing that Sherlock could do this to him, it was knowing he could and did stay away from him for two years optionally. John couldn't. He nearly didn't. And even when he kissed Mary, he imagined Sherlock's lips on his, slowly working their way down his neck, playing with his chest. When he did hug her, he imagined it was his body he held so close, so close in all the right places. When he did make love to her, he moaned and bit his lips to avoid saying his name when he came. When he smiled at her, he saw him behind her. When he told her he loved her, he pictured him. And Sherlock didn't seem to care for him all. He could fucking lie and cheat and die for two years without thinking of John.

Fuck him. 

A few hours later.

"John, I didn't have a choice." 

A few years later.  
Mary dies


	5. I killed his wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's bad guys, it really is.

John kept kicking him again and again and again and again. He didn't hear the sound of his foot thumping against his flesh, he didn't hear the splatter of blood, he didn't hear as the people behind him brought tissues to their faces, he didn't hear his own panting, all he heard was,  
"Because John can't ever know that I lied."   
Mary's voice, her lie, his vow, her death.

"Let him, I killed his wife." 

Yeah, you did. 

How did it get this bad? How did we go from killing people from each other to killing ourselves, physically and mentally?

John looked down at him and felt a twang of guilt but it was nothing in comparison to the pure fury he felt. He didn't know he'd been holding it in for so long. He didn't know if it was because of Sherlock. But that didn't matter right now, he'd hurt Sherlock.


	6. Why not?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER 
> 
> So, they kiss.

John kept kicking him again and again and again and again. He didn't hear the sound of his foot thumping against his flesh, he didn't hear the splatter of blood, he didn't hear as the people behind him brought tissues to their faces, he didn't hear his own panting, all he heard was,  
"Because John can't ever know that I lied."   
Mary's voice, her lie, his vow, her death.  
  
"Let him, I killed his wife."   
  
Yeah, you did.  
  
To say that John felt horrible was a gross understatement. To say that John wanted to cut his leg off for hurting Sherlock was also an understatement.   
  
He stared at Sherlock who finally sat still on a wheelchair that didn't belong beneath him. He stared in impenetrable silence that, for the first time, was uncomfortable. Being together with Sherlock, even if in just silence, was never, never this uncomfortable (which was saying a lot, considering his phone had moaned quite a few times at inopportune moments) Finally, John broke the silence and said,  
"Look at what I've done to you."   
Sherlock looked at himself, dismissed John's statement with a gesture of his hand and replied,   
"I've been through worse."   
  
John chuckled. Sherlock was, no doubt, in extreme pain; that pain was not comparable to the unbearable suffering John was failing to face.   
  
Why couldn't he stop himself?   
  
John was never an eccentric man, despite the whole addicted to danger thing, he was a man who planned, a man who looked at the practical side, a man who didn't look at the glass half full or half empty, but a glass containing some water. He had a strong moral compass, followed the law (mostly), is- was, was a good husband and good father; he hoped, at one point in his life, he was a good friend. But he couldn't stop himself.   
  
Why couldn't he stop himself?  
  
A man in a horrible ironed suit approached them. Sherlock, to test himself, began to observe and spew out a few deductions,  
"New clothes, cheap, badly ironed, must be a college graduate. Shoes, tie, suit say lawyer. Shaving foam on his neck says no one close to tell him about it, single. The nurse just waved at him so he comes here often. The way he walks says insecure about height, too tall, grew up with a short mother then, the genetically gifted father wasn't around. The chain around his neck has a ring, old but polished, must be his mother's, well taken care of. Loves mom, no dad around, insecure, lawyer. Must be a domestic abuse lawyer. Mother probably went through it."  
  
John, out of habit, scoffed at Sherlock. The man began to approach them and spewed out rehearsed lines about domestic abuse when John stopped him, saying,  
"No, we're not actually a c-"  
Sherlock interrupted him by pulling on his sleeve, he pulled him down until his hands could reach his face, he rested one on John's cheek and one his good shoulder and gently nudged them closer to his own face in a kiss that was far too inappropriate to have taken place in a hospital.   
  
While stopping for air, Sherlock told the lawyer,  
"This isn't domestic abuse."  
John gaped at him, he didn't complain, not yet anyway, "Sherlock, wha-"  
"He stopped bothering us." Sherlock stated, letting John go.  
"Right, right." John said, licking his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> Previous Chapters: [You and I|http://aminoapps.com/p/51rytu]


End file.
